


One Hundred Credits

by jedicallie (writergirlie)



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-12
Updated: 2010-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirlie/pseuds/jedicallie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luke learns something about his grandmother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Hundred Credits

It was the bones of a krayt dragon that had beckoned him.

 

Gleaming white against the blinding glare of the suns, they had sparkled like jewels, calling out to him from just beyond the dunes in the distance. He hadn’t known what they were, of course. He had been too far away to make out the shapes exactly, but his eyes had been drawn to them nevertheless, earning him a reprimand from Uncle Owen for “doddling instead of paying attention to his work.”

 

Moisture farming was hard work, mind-numbingly hard work, especially for an eight year old whose small hands still struggled to grasp the heavy water pumps and still had trouble keeping up with those of a seasoned farmer like Uncle Owen, who moved about the field with purpose, believing that no effort should be wasted in any way. Luke’s hands were calloused like his, the hands of an adult, what would probably be a jarring sight on someone so young, if he weren’t so used to it already.

 

They had carried on until  mid-morning, filling the pumps, herding the droids to and fro, coughing against the sand swirling against the savage breezes. And still, the krayt dragon called to him, shiny and magical, just begging to be seen up close. When they had broken for lunch, Luke could resist temptation no longer, and, having gotten permission from Uncle Owen to play among the sand dunes, he ran straight for the glittering white of the skeleton’s outline.

 

The last thing he remembered, before blackness took him, was the silent “o” that had formed on his mouth when he’d finally seen his prize up close. He had just reached out to touch one of the rib bones, when he felt his skull crack open, and he fell to the ground, tasting dust and sand and his own sweat. It had happened so quickly that he hadn’t even had a chance to scream, and just as his brain was shutting down he saw the outline of a man, dressed in faded brown robes, chasing away the thing that had hit him--a Tusken Raider.

 

He could still smell the rotten stench of the Sandperson’s wrappings, smell the odor of bantha poodooo when he came to, the clean white light of his room blinding him for the first few disorienting moments. There was shouting going on--Uncle Owen’s gravelly baritone was coming into focus, softened by Aunt Beru’s attempts to calm him.

 

“He could have been killed!”

 

“Owen, please, you’ll wake him-”

 

“That boy has no sense!” Uncle Owen railed. “Always running into danger, without a single thought to what might happen! Just like his father...”

 

_Just like his father._

 

Luke had heard Uncle Owen say those words before, always in the dead of night, always in hushed tones, always when he thought Luke couldn’t hear him. His father seemed to be a subject best avoided; questions about him seemed to only make Uncle Owen upset and distant, and Aunt Beru could only offer him vague stories about spice freighters and strange worlds Anakin Skywalker had voyaged to before he died.

 

“He’s fine, now... No harm done-”

 

“Not for his lack of carelessness, though-”

 

“Ben Kenobi would have never let anything happen to him, you know that-”

 

“Ben Kenobi....”

 

Uncle Owen said the name with disgust, snarling the syllables before he gave a bitter laugh.

 

“He promised us he’d stay out of the way,” he said. “I see him, you know. I see him every once in a while, hiding out behind the dunes, watching us. Watching him. Luke’s going to find out everything if he keeps this up. I can’t keep that boy in the dark forever...”

 

Find out? Find out what?

 

Luke strained to hear more, lifting his head up instinctively, then finding out much too late that that had not been such a great idea; a groan escaped him before he could stop it, as a wave of nausea hit him with full force, and he bent over the side of his bed, clutching his stomach.

 

“He’s awake!”

 

Aunt Beru appeared moments later, carrying a bowl and a washcloth. She sat beside him, making him hiss out in pain as she touched the back of his head gingerly. There was a bump there, and caked blood from where the gaffi stick had struck him. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks as he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the pain to subside.

 

“There, there,” Aunt Beru murmured. “It’s all right, now, you’re all right...”

 

He flinched at the feeling of cold wetness on his forehead; Aunt Beru had pressed the washcloth to his skin, wiping away the grime of dirt and sand. The pain began to recede, reduced to a dull throbbing now, and he began to open his eyes.

 

“I made him angry,” he said softly.

 

“What?”

 

“Uncle Owen,” he said, “I made him angry, didn’t I?”

 

Aunt Beru smiled, cupping his chin as she removed all traces of sand from his face.

 

“You know him,” she said. “His bark is worse than his bite. He was just worried about you.”

 

Luke nodded. He supposed she was right; Uncle Owen did show his worry in his own way. He was not an overly affectionate man, but he was no less loving, if Luke really thought about it. But always there was this distance between them, this artificial divide that Luke couldn’t ever seem to overcome, nor even make sense of.

 

It was as if looking at him brought Uncle Owen great pain.

 

“I didn’t mean to... I only wanted to look at the krayt dragon bones...”

 

“I know, darling,” she said. “It wasn’t you, it was...”

 

Luke wanted her to continue, and waited for her to do so, but she seemed to deliberately stop herself. After a while, he looked up to meet her eyes, and she gave him a curious sort of smile.

 

“What is it, Luke?”

 

“Nothing, just... what were you going to say just now?”

 

She seemed torn between telling him and sparing him whatever pain there was  beneath her smile. At length, she said, “The Sandpeople... He doesn’t like them...”

 

Luke couldn’t help but laugh. “No one does, Aunt Beru.”

 

She smiled. “No, I suppose no one does,” she said. “But your uncle... well, he has special reasons to hate them...”

 

Again she paused, and Luke couldn’t tell whether she meant to stop there altogether or whether she was just gathering the strength to keep speaking.

 

“Why?” he said. “Why does he hate them?”

 

There was a pensive look in Aunt Beru’s eyes, and she sighed as she ran her hand through his hair.

 

“You have your grandmother’s eyes,” she said. “Have I ever told you that?”

 

He shook his head.

 

“You do... not just in color, either, but in... everything...” She slid her hand down to his chin, tilting it up so he could meet her gaze. “She had kind eyes. Noble eyes.”

 

He watched her carefully, not really understanding why she was telling him this, but understanding that she was in pain and that she needed the touch of reassurance, so he reached up to awkwardly pat her arm, as only an eight year old could. She smiled, grateful for his thoughtfulness, then gave a heavy sigh.

 

“She died at a Tusken Raider camp,” she said at last.

 

Luke felt his heart slice in two at the words, though it seemed as if something inside of him had already known before she ever said anything.

 

“They took her... They took her and she had been gone for weeks. Your father went to rescue her, but he was too late...”

 

_His father_.

 

His insides clawed at the words, hungry for more information, more history, more of the legacy he’d inherited. But the pain in her eyes stopped him from asking any more.

 

After some time, she got up and set the bowl and washcloth on the nightstand, and slipped out of his room. Luke wondered if he had done something wrong, said something wrong to chase her away, but she returned a little later, carrying something in her hand that he couldn’t quite see.

 

“Here,” she said, placing strange coins in his hand.

 

“What are they?”

 

“Those were the coins we had before the Empire,” she explained. “Each one is worth about twenty credits now.”

 

He stared at them, poking at them with his finger. Then he looked up at her and said, “What do they mean?”

 

“Your grandmother was a slave, Luke,” she said quietly. “Uncle Owen’s father bought her for one hundred credits and freed her. And then he married her.”

 

“Oh...”

 

She smiled, giving him a kiss on the top of his head, careful not to disturb his wounds, then said, “Get some sleep, all right? You’ll need rest... You’ve been through quite an ordeal today...”

 

Luke had a feeling she wasn’t just talking about his encounter with the Sandperson. He stared at the coins in his hand once again, laying them out on the bed before him, and as he closed his eyes and drifted off into sleep, he could almost see the face of his grandmother, smiling at him.

 

And just as he gave himself over to dreaming he could even hear her voice, “My handsome boy... my handsome boy...”


End file.
